


we'll run to the future (shining like diamonds)

by neilperries



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Female Reader, Healthy Amount of Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lap Dances, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Stripper!Reader, case in Nevada, eventual spicy times we'll see, not Spence tho he's a sweetie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25556320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neilperries/pseuds/neilperries
Summary: As he turns, he’s met with a pair of eyes directly behind him. Startling some, he sucks in a small breath, and observes the girl in front of him. She seems just as shocked to see him as he was to see her.“Sorry,” she quickly apologizes, grabs the lapels of her sheer robe to cover her front. It didn’t do much to conceal the cherry red lacy lingerie she was wearing, though, and out of respect Spencer averts his gaze elsewhere, “I thought you and your partner had left.”
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 22
Kudos: 81





	1. you're good at being bad (you're bad at being good)

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello hello!! after writing that oneshot i've had this idea kicking around in my head for a hot second  
> tags are subject to change and more will be added as more chapters are made but for now let's kick this thing into motion
> 
> this work doesn't have a beta, so any and all typos/mistakes are my own!  
> as always! i tried to keep descriptions of the reader vague so it applies to a multitude of people but let me know if there's more i can do to help that front<3

Las Vegas was both somehow Spencer’s hometown and his worst nightmare. Normally, childhood came with a certain fond nostalgia that people looked back on and wished to have back. Spencer would rather relive his toture with Tobias a thousand times over than go back to his early years. He looked at his young age with a certain disdain as he never had the sort of experiences that were supposed to shape his mind and give him the tools to navigate through life. He never got to have happy childhood memories, one that came with sticky ice cream and happy days in the summer sun. He instead poured over classic novels like Faulkner and Dickinson, and picked up the pieces of his broken home that his father left behind. The patriarch of the family was supposed to support the household, and the torch had been passed to Spencer at an early age, and it wasn’t a role that he was fit to fill. Socially inept, painfully awkward, and strange were words that others may have classified Spencer as. Man of the house was never a combination that slipped past people’s lips.

So, Las Vegas didn’t hold any sort of sentimental value to Spencer.

“Pretty boy,” He hears Morgan say to his right, jostling him from the glazed over and lost look he was giving the case file, the jet hits some turbulence then so Spencer isn’t allowed to slip back into his thoughts.

“What?” He says back, soft but still with some unnecessary bite to it.

“Calm down, just trying to see where your head's at,” Derek replies, shrugs noncommittally.

“It’s in this case, where else would it be?” Spencer dismisses, turns his attention to what Hotch was saying.

“Two female victims, similar height and features. Both found missing their hearts and with these words-” Hotch hands out photos of the bodies, with slurs etched into their skin haphazardly, “carved into their skin. They both worked at a local strip club, and were known to be favored among patrons.”

“There’s clearly some resentment towards women,” JJ says to Spencer’s left, face twisted up as she observes the crime photos, “male unsub?”

“Or a female unsub, jealousy?” Emily tacks on, spitballing other possibilities to broaden the team’s mindset.

Spencer thumbs the corner of one of the photos, gaze tracing each detail of the photos, memorizing every slash and piece of behavioral evidence.

“No, this was some sort of crime of passion. Why else would he take the heart? Definitely some guy who doesn’t know how to take no for an answer,” Morgan counters, turning the team’s attention onto him, “and the way the words have been carved into their skin shows immaturity. I’d clock the guy as young, maybe twenties or early thirties, he’s new to the killing scene.”

“We won’t know for sure until we get there,” Hotch says idly, shaking his head a little, “Morgan, take Reid with you to the strip club to talk to the other workers. JJ and Prentiss go to the scene of the crime, and David- we’ll go to the local police department to meet up with the chief. Good?”

Everyone murmurs their agreement, and Spencer settles back into the cushion of the seat he was in. Bites at his bottom lip as he mulls over the photos some more. It was a familiar case- one he’s seen in different variations over his years of working as a BAU agent. A part of him wishes he hadn’t grown so numb to all the violence and gore, but it was hard to feel empathetic anymore. Bad things would keep happening in every corner of the world and if he didn’t shut himself out from it then all the pain and grief would keep festering until they became too beastly and large to even keep functioning as a normal human being. He was already in a deep enough hole already, he didn’t need to add on any personal attachments to every corpse he saw.

As everyone pairs off into various conversations, Spencer closes his eyes and tries to get some rest before what he knows will be a long weekend begins.

The jet lands thirty minutes later, and Morgan is the one to nudge Spencer awake. He blinks blearily clearing the sleep from his eyes, and mumbles a small thank you before going to grab his go bag and follows the rest of the team out of the jet and into a black SUV. He takes the passenger seat, and turns his eyes to the passing scenery that was Nevada. Some familiar sights pull at his heartstrings, and before it becomes too much to bear he directs his sight forward and tunes into the conversation between Prentiss and Morgan.

“I’m just saying I’ve never seen you take the same girl home,” Emily is saying with a small laugh, typing something out on her phone. 

“A player can’t play the same girl twice, I have to keep my options open,” Morgan responds, hand curling around the wheel and smiling devilishly back to her.

“I don’t know, Derek, maybe you need someone to make a homebody out of you. Perhaps some commitment would do you some good,” She replies back with an even wider grin, trumping Derek’s own.

Derek tsks, and shakes his head, “I am committed, lady. Committed to my job.”

“That’s up for debate,” Spencer pipes up with a private crooked smile, clasps his hands together.

“Ooh, pretty boy has got jokes, you got the whole car laughing,” Morgan acts surprised, fakes a mocking laugh.

“That joke would have landed with the right crowd, and you know it,” Spencer quips back and the rest of the car ride is spent in amiable silence with some conversation sprouting up to fill the time.

Morgan and Spencer drop Emily off where JJ is at the crime scene, and then make their way towards the strip joint. When they stop outside, Spencer takes a second to take in its external facade. The club was located in what looked to be an old movie theater. An art deco style architecture accentuating its features. With circular bulbs that he’s sure would light up the entire street if it weren’t noon and the sun wasn’t high up in the sky. Two signs with the word Pyramids in a bubbly cursive font sat snug on top of the screen that detailed the special events for the week. It was high class definitely unlike any other club that Spencer had ever had to go to for a case- only for cases. He didn’t make it a habit to frequent clubs outside of work. 

Taking the steps up to the door, Morgan and him walk past a ticket booth and Spencer glances towards it. That must be how they do admissions. Clever. Classy. Morgan a few steps ahead of him signals him forward, and the pair finally push open the doors into the main lobby area. It was still just as classic on the outside as it was on the inside. The concessions booth had been transformed into a bar, and there were stairs leading up to the mezzanine area. The railing was gold, and glittering underneath the chandeliers. Spencer couldn’t imagine such a ghastly crime as he’d just observed through pictures being committed anywhere near such a historic and lovely place. They go into the main screening area, and Spencer is shafted of the theater experience when he realizes they had gutted out all the seats and transformed the area into a regular strip spot. Stripper poles were erected in the spot on stage where he’s sure the screen that movies were projected on back in the day, and retro looking tables were splattered in random spots on the ground floor area.

“You must be the FBI agents,” a voice says from near them, and the two of them turn to find it’s source.

They take out their badges as Morgan says, “I’m special agent Morgan and this is Dr. Reid. Are you the owner of the club?”

“Yes, welcome to Pyramids- my pride and joy,” the man approaches them, “I’m Terry Rodman. Nevada born and bred. What can I help you with?” He extends his hand, and Morgan takes it giving it a firm shake. When he turns the appendage towards Spencer, he just turns away and stuffs his own hands in the pockets of his slacks, disinterested in shaking hands with a club owner- that’s not to say he’d happily shake hands with anyone else. Germs. Chuffed, Terry shakes his head at the rude gesture, and turns back to Morgan.

“Well, I’m sure you are already aware of our reason for being here.”

“Terrible, awful what happened to those girls. Pyramids will miss them dearly,” the owner says flippantly which gives Spencer some pause.

“How many girls do you have employed here?” He asks, glancing around the space.

“About thirty,” Terry replies, “each girl takes a different day. I’d be happy to provide you with their schedules. We also have a couple boys that work as the bouncers, and bartenders.”

“So only female dancers?” Spencer further questions.

“Yeah, we tried to do a boys night, but it wasn’t well received,” he explains, and Spencer makes a soft noise as if he understood what that meant, but he honestly didn’t.

“Is there a dressing room? For the girls to get ready for their routines?” Morgan asks then, and Terry nods, points in the direction of the stage.

“Just behind those curtains and down the hall,” he informs them, and Morgan nods.

“Spence, you go and check out the space. Talk to whoever is in there. Mr. Rodman, would you be willing to give me whatever files and information you have on your employees?” Morgan asks politely, and Terry nods.

“I’m an open book, special agent, I’d be glad to,” and then he’s leading Derek back down the way they’d come into the lobby.

Spencer watches them as they walk away, and then he’s going on his own way towards the stage. Takes the stairs up onto the stage, and glances around the space again. It had high ceilings, and viewing balconies. The balconies were cloaked in a deep shadow as the lights weren’t on, and Spencer couldn’t help but feel uneasy at that thought. Anyone could be up there. An old theater like the one he was in had plenty of unknown exits and entrances. The unsub could have been stalking the girls, there were a plethora of dark corners to hide in. That would mean though that the unsub was awkward in some way. Or maybe he thought highly of himself, got off on the idea no one could see him. He wrings his hands together, and turns on his heel to go to the backstage area and find the dressing room for the girls.

As he turns, he’s met with a pair of eyes directly behind him. Startling some, he sucks in a small breath, and observes the girl in front of him. She seems just as shocked to see him as he was to see her.

“Sorry,” she quickly apologizes, grabs the lapels of her sheer robe to cover her front. It didn’t do much to conceal the cherry red lacy lingerie she was wearing, though, and out of respect Spencer averts his gaze elsewhere, “I thought you and your partner had left.”

“We’re still.. checking things out,” he explains to her, and she nods in understanding, “do you work here?”

“Yeah, just started,” she laughs. Her voice was like honey, sweet and reminded him of sunshine that he wasn’t all too familiar with. “I have the worst timing, huh?” she adds on, which makes him smile some in return.

“Did you know the victims-”

“Willow, and Emma. You can say their names.”

“-Willow, and Emma,” he quickly atones for his slip up, not wanting to miff this girl anymore, for all her sweetness she had some bite to her, “did you know them well?”

“We worked Saturday nights together. Emma was the first one to sort of welcome me to the scene. Really really sweet girl,” she glances away as she says that, getting this misty faraway look in her eye. Spencer observes her then. The gentle slope of her nose, and the way her hair was pinned back neatly from her face but there were a few loose strands that had come loose to frame her features. Spencer’s hand twitched in his pocket, a want to tuck them behind her ear rising in him that he quickly suppresses. “Gosh, and Willow. She was so kind, and giving. One time I tore my tights before having to go on and she let me borrow a pair of hers,” a small sad smile graces her face then, but it vanishes when she looks back to Spencer, “this is a community, you know? We look out for each other here, and protect each other.”

“Protect each other from what?”

“Patrons, douchebags looking to grope and touch us, and-” she starts to say, but pauses when the doors behind them open, and falls silent. Morgan and the club owner return to the stage area, and she gets this brief look of panic over her face, but she stones her expression back into one of neutrality, and nods at Spencer, “that’s it. I have to go, I’m sorry.”

And as quickly as she had come, she disappeared back into the wings. He could hear her heels clack against the linoleum tiled hall, and he’s left wondering what she had been about to say. Turning to face Morgan, and rejoin him back on the floor, he realizes the club owner’s expression had changed from it’s jovial one to one of poorly concealed anger.

“Was she talking to you?” Terry asks, and Spencer hesitates before shrugging, “she’s new here. Doesn’t really understand how things work just yet, I wouldn’t take anything she says to heart.”

“And why is that?” Spencer asks out of turn, narrows his eyes at the sudden hostility.

Morgan and Spencer stare at Terry as he tries to formulate a proper response to that, but he just throws his hands up and slaps Morgan’s shoulder, “well, boys. I’ve got a club to get ready for the night. Feel free to call or stop by if you have any further questions.”

And then, Spencer and Morgan are being ushered back to the street and to their car. They enter the car, and Spencer stares at the club owner waving at them as they drive away.

“Okay, that was weird, right? I’m not losing it?” Morgan asks, breaking the silence as they drive to the police department.

“Really strange,” Spencer confirms.

“What did that girl say to you? Did you catch her name?”

Her name. No, he hadn’t got her name. Out of the few things they had talked about, he hadn’t thought to ask her for the most basic information. He had been too caught up in the beauty of her to think straight, and that didn’t happen to Spencer often. He didn’t get mesmerized, or awestruck by anyone on the job- not since JJ, at least, but that was different on multiple levels. That ship had sailed long ago, and Spencer had tried to have other relationships with a handful of other people since then, but nothing stuck. And then her. A girl who’s name he didn’t even know.

“No, but she told me about the victims. They both worked on Saturday nights, and were loved by the community,” he informs Morgan who hums.

“Community?” he asks, and Spencer nods.

“The girls look out for each other. From people that come into the club looking for more than what’s offered,” he explains, “Oregon did a study on exotic dancers and thirty two of the thirty three interviewed reported that they’d been sexually harassed or were involved in some sort of violence while on the job.”

“Doesn’t surprise me, it’s a nasty world those girls are a part of,” Morgan mumbles with a small shake of his head.

“Sure, most of the time it may seem that way, but she spoke so highly of her coworkers. I don’t think any of the girls that work there are our unsub.”

“So, that eliminates a female unsub, but what makes you so sure?”

Turning his gaze back out to the window, he can see in the rear-view the retreating form of Pyramids, and he mumbles remembering a sunshine smile and honey like voice, “just a feeling.”

He can feel Morgan’s knowing eyes trained on the back of his head, and he knows he’s said something strange. Well, stranger than what he usually says. Spencer Reid didn’t assume things based on a feeling. He was facts oriented, statistics driven. But his gut was telling him a truth that he couldn’t ignore.

He’d have to find that girl again. Get what she was about to say out of her (and try to not think about how pretty her eyes were and how they sparkled under the few stage lights that were on). 

Back in Pyramids, you’re sitting at your vanity. You adjust the strap of your lingerie top, and startle when the door is slammed open. Terry emerges into the room in a fury, red in the face.

“What did you say to that agent?” he accuses immediately, and you stand hurriedly. Take a few steps back and away from him to put more distance between the two of you.

“Nothing,” you insist, “he was just asking about Willow and Emma. You remember them, right?”

“Don’t get smart with me,” he whispers furiously, “do not talk to anyone. About anything, you hear me? I did you a favor getting rid of them.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” you say quietly into the air, guilt rising in your body and tangling the deep dark parts of your mind, “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Terry comes closer to you, and you stay frozen in fear in your spot. You barely flinch as he brings a hand up to caress your cheekbone, and your eyes stay trained on his own as they drift down your body. “You’re the best, sweetheart, I just want to give you everything you deserve,” he coos, his anger receding.

“You didn’t have to kill them,” you confess, the first time you’ve acknowledged what he’s done.

“They got too close. They thought they were better than you.”

“No, they didn’t,” you tell him, and he looks at you as if you had burned him. A part of you thinks he’s about to do away with you just as easily as he did Emma and Willow, but then he’s taking a step back, and shrugging.

“Maybe not,” he acknowledges, “but what we did? That stays here. Don’t go running your mouth, and stay away from those agents.” Then, he’s turning and exiting the room.

You crumble, fall against your vanity heaving in deep breaths of air to try and quell the panic in your body. Your skin was alight and buzzing just thinking about the secrets that you held. The grief you’ve caused- even though you hadn’t necessarily done anything.

You started at Pyramids a mere two months ago, and normally it was hard for girls to social climb in the exotic dance community. They had to earn respect, but Terry told you you had star power and he was right. You’d become a favorite among clients, and as girls started to notice envy arose within the group. One day, you’d had enough and told Terry you’d be leaving and that this job just wasn’t for you but you were glad to be given the opportunity. In turn, he insisted you had to stay and that he’d take care of it.

You didn’t know that by taking care of it he meant to take care of it in a fatal way.

He had shown you what he’d done, bragged about it and boasted as if it was something to be proud of. You were horrified, but scared that he may lash out against you in the same way he had against the other girls you kept mum and thanked him for what he did.

That was a mistake. 

Now you were so grossly entangled in this web of lies and murder and you didn’t know how to get out of it- and now the feds were here. Working the case. They were sure to find out the truth of what was happening, and then what? In some way, you were an accessory to those murders, right? You’d go to jail, and maybe that’s what you deserved. After everything else you’d been through in life that had led you to this point jail might be the most reasonable next step.

Raking your hands through your hair and freeing it from its confines, you drag yourself back up to your seat and stare at yourself in the mirror. You felt monstrous, and dirty.

But suddenly, your mind is supplying a pair of kind eyes. That agent you had talked to briefly, the one you nearly spilled all to. He seemed genuine, and sweet albeit a bit shy. Just at the sight of your state of undress he had to look away, and that was refreshing compared to the eyes that normally ogled and stared hungrily at you. It was wrong to think so highly of someone so soon, but you had a gut feeling about him. Maybe, if you reached out, he’d help you.

For now, you could only count down the seconds until you would see him again. A plan had to be made. All of this nonsense and pain had to come to an end.

Pyramids was going down, and you’d be damned if you weren’t the person to do it.


	2. i guess it couldn't hurt me (if it brings me to my knees)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You pause fully, openly gaping at him. Then, you whistle low, and continue to circle the pole, “so, you’re a genius, then.”
> 
> Turning your gaze back to him, he seems like he wants to say more, to boast some more which you wouldn’t mind. He was turning out to be endlessly interesting. You were smart, but clearly not on the level that he was. Plus, you were of the belief that if someone had achieved something great they had every right to be proud and brag about it- but he seems to remember himself, maybe recalling a moment when talking of his accomplishments weren’t welcome, and ends up saying, “something like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since i'm suddenly on a writing kick i guess i'm updating this now!! so far i only have eight chapters planned but that's subject to change if my mind stays in this universe/if i get anymore ideas!!
> 
> this is where the minor character death tag comes into play but it's a short bit at the end if you want to skip it
> 
> here's the song that the routine is done to btw if you want to listen: https://youtu.be/j6-tTMQCPVQ

The following day is a Saturday which you’re not sure is a blessing or a curse. The agents hadn’t been back to the club since the day before, and you could feel the hope that had been manifesting in you receding just as quick as it came. But Saturdays were work days which meant it was time to get in the right mindset to dance and entertain.

You get to Pyramids early before you’re supposed to go on stage- never good to be late for anything you figure, but specifically to a job where your boss was a sadistic killer. Setting your duffel at your vanity, you tug your hair back, and pin it. There’s only two other girls there, and they were newer to the scene than you are. Therefore, the room was completely silent. No friendly conversation, just quiet professionalism. Taking out your outfit for the night, you hang it up and get to steaming the robe. The theme for the weekend was twenties Hollywood lavishness. A mouthful, but you’d honestly been looking forward to it all week. It meant you got to do a fairly conservative routine, similar to burlesque. The feather robe you’d had made earlier in the month was a soft baby pink, and it draped all the way to the floor. The lingerie and slip you had paired with it were in a similar shade, and highlighted your skin tone deliciously. If you didn’t have an abundance of tips by the end of the night you’d be extremely surprised, and a bit disappointed- mainly with yourself. 

Steaming out the creases in your robe you let your mind wander back to the agent you’d met the day before. He’d been tall, and a bit lanky. Like his limbs hadn’t grown in right but somehow it suited him. While he carried himself a bit awkwardly, he still seemed sure of himself. A quiet confidence like that was admirable. You wondered how old he was as he seemed younger than his counterpart, and too young to be in his line of work. His line of work had to come with it’s own platter of atrocities. You can’t even begin to imagine the things he’s seen and done, the things he’s gone through. It just made the way he spoke delicately to you all that much more endearing. You smile privately to yourself as you remember the way he tore his eyes away from you at the beginning like he was embarrassed to have caught you in your lingerie. In any other situation, it may be domestic and sweet, but it just showed that he may be naive in that department of things which why are you kidding yourself? It was insanely adorable.

Satisfied with the way your robe looked, you take out the rest of your wardrobe for the evening and strip. You were comfortable in your own skin, you had to be to exist in your line of work, and slipped into the satin undergarments. Buckling up your garter belt, and pulling your slip over your head you examine your appearance in your light up mirror. Putting your hands on your hips, you look at yourself from different angles, and hum appreciatively. You looked good, and you felt good- it was sure to be a good night. Sitting down at the vanity, you start applying your makeup. A natural glowy look for the evening would be best. Can’t overdo it when you’re trying to sell innocence and demure.

“Hey, pretty girl,” a voice says from behind you, and you spin around to see Sylvia entering the room. She had started around the same time as you, and was the counterpart to your soft nature. Black hair, a raspy voice, a cutthroat attitude. She was amazing in every way. Any time you had a problem with a client and the bouncers didn’t notice she was there to get the guy away from you or take you away from the situation. To say you loved her would be an understatement. She walks over to where your robe was hung up and whistles low, “look at this thing! Trying to show me up tonight or something?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you respond, settling back in your chair and smiling at her. She approaches you and leans down to smack a noisy kiss against your head, and then starts setting up at her vanity beside you.

“Boss says to expect a good turn out tonight,” she says idly, unpacking her things.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she affirms, “which just means more people to piss me off. I swear, the next rando that touches me is getting socked. I don’t care if I lose my job over it.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” you say back with a snort, and return to painting your face.

“How’d you sleep last night?” she asks, masking it as just a polite inquiry, but you knew she was trying to check up on you, giving you an option to unload and spill whatever was bothering you. Of course she’d noticed you were off since the deaths of your coworkers, everyone was.

The answer to that question was a loaded one, and it was that you hadn’t slept supremely well. You were up all night being visited by the ghosts of your past. Willow and Emma were just the new additions to your happy home of mistakes. Plus, you’d been planning. Trying to think up proper ways to take Terry Rodman down without him realizing that you were conspiring against him. The best way, you’d figured out, was to get in touch with that agent again. The only setback to that, though? You didn’t even know his name, and you couldn’t ask around for it because that would seem suspicious. He hadn’t given you his card, and you weren’t able to hear it when his partner was introducing themselves to Terry. Going to the police station was out of the question. Terry had too many connections, and he’d know you were there before you even arrived. So, at this point, you just had to leave it up to chance.

“Fine,” you lie easily, tap some powder on your face to avoid your makeup cracking while you are performing, “you?”

“Terrible. My neighbor just got this new dog, and it was yapping all night,” Sylvia says with a sigh, and then for the rest of the time getting ready was spent listening to her rant about her neighbor. 

Some time later, you’re walking down the hall to get in the wings before your time on stage. With your head down you whisper affirmations to yourself to get in the right headspace. A hand on your arm stops you halfway, and you raise your head to see who has touched you.

Terry is standing there with a smirk on his face that you want to slap off, but you smile in return to hide your hatred for him. His eyes rake over your appearance, and you squirm ever so slightly under the scrutinization. “You look delectable,” he compliments, and you whisper your thanks, “I just wanted to wish you luck out there. Also-” he pulls you closer to him, tucks one of your finger waved locks behind your ear, “the agents from yesterday are back. If I see you talking to them, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Footsteps approaching forces the two of you apart, and you stand there as he walks away from you. Your hands were trembling, and your breath was labored. This had to be your chance. He was already on to you, clearly, but you could play his game for as long as you needed to- that’s not to say you were at your wit’s end. Between the creepy touches and longing gazes and the murder and the pressure you could feel yourself crumbling from the inside out. Squeezing your hands into fists, you raise your head, and finish your trek to the wings. Once there, you feel your heartbeat pick up even more than it had. General nerves were fine, but your mind helpfully supplies that he was in the audience. That your agent was there. Your one hope of getting yourself out of this mess. Giving him a good show suddenly felt all too important. He had to notice you, to see you, and to try to approach you afterwards. You were good at making people lust after you, but this time was different. Almost everything was riding on you making this a sight to behold, something that he can’t forget.

The emcee coming on over the speakers alerts you to how soon your time was to go on stage. Rolling your shoulders back, you step forward into a spot behind the curtains right next to where they would pull open. After your name is gleefully announced over the microphone you hear the sultry sound of the saxophone playing over the speakers. Each girl got to choose the song she’d dance to so long as it fit with the theme, and for tonight you’d chosen an Annette Hanshaw tune. As she starts to sing you pull the curtain just open enough to stick your leg out and wave it in front of the audience. That sort of teasing continues on for a few more seconds before the melody starts to pick up some, and you slowly emerge from behind the curtain to many cheers and whistling from the audience. Inch by inch to the beat you start to slip out of your robe, and once it is fully off you deposit it on the ground. Dancing around and across the stage slowly as you toy with the straps of your slip. Everytime you drop it more and more dangerously low the crowd leans forward, there are a few scattered whoops in the audience. The sultry voice of Annette croons through the speakers begging the question of what she wouldn’t do for her man, and before the second verse you’re dropping your slip and revealing your satin undergarments to the crowd. Walking the length of the stage up the pole, you slowly wind yourself around it, and rub yourself up against it. The song was too slow for you to do any intricate tricks, but you did do a few dips and leans here and there to the beat of the music.

On one particular dip you catch sight of curly hair, and your heart nearly drops to the floor. You can feel his eyes boring into your skin, and you slowly drop to the floor, and crawl towards where he is. He’s near the outskirts of the crowd, next to a blonde woman and an older man with a salt and pepper beard- but his company didn’t matter to you. Only he did. You languidly drape yourself across the stage and reach forward to where he was. Sending him a smile as the song comes to a close and the piano swells off into a soft twinkle. The final phrase of the song is Annette Hanshaw perkily saying, “that’s all!” and you mouth the words with a wink. Pulling yourself back up to your feet you saunter off stage after your striptease and minimal pole work, and enter the wings. Sylvia is there with a bright smile, and she grabs your shoulders.

“I can’t believe you, you’re so sexy, I love you,” she says in a rush pulling you into a hug.

“Quit it, I’m dripping all over the place,” you laugh, referring to the sheer amount of sweat coating your brow.

“It looks like diamonds, doll, you’re sparkling,” she responds with an equally eager laugh, and then she’s being called onto the stage. You release her and wish her luck, and make your way back into the dressing room to freshen up before working the floor.

With all the girls out of the room, you were left alone. Pressing a towel to your brow, you take a seat, and catch your breath. You know that the routine was easy looking, easy as breathing, but the amount of control it takes to make it look effortless was tiring. Reaching into your duffel, you take out your reusable water bottle, and gulp down as much as you can before your lungs beg for air. As you stand, the door opens, and you nearly drop your water bottle. The agent from the day before is stood there, slightly red in the face. So, your plan had worked. Make him ache for more- men were so typical. 

“Hey, stranger,” you greet with a smile, and he manages to smile back, “how’s your investigation going?”

“I’m not liable to tell you the details,” he says in a soft voice, “I don’t know why I came back here.”

“Yes, you do,” you tell him, “you were going to ask me for a dance.”

He flounders, mouth opening and closing, and his brows furrow just slightly. It only takes one long look for him to realize you were asking him to pay for a dance and not the other way around. Another few tense moments pass as he connects the dots, and then he’s nodding.

“Normally, it has to go through the bouncers,” you inform him, setting your water bottle down, and stepping towards him. Reaching down, you take his hand in yours, and lead him back out into the hallway and towards the area designated for private dances, “but this one’s on the house, special agent.”

You wave off the man guarding the hall, and he nods letting the two of you pass. The bouncer does send you a strange look, though. You didn’t normally do private dances, and you especially didn’t do lap dances without some form of payment. You knew that this alone would raise alarms, and cause an exuberant amount of suspicion, but a little bit of cozying up to the bouncer later would fix that issue. It was all hormonal, the way that people made decisions, and the game of primal desire was a game you’d become a master at long ago. 

Finally, the two of you reach your room, and you push open the door, letting him enter first. It was an old breakroom in the theater that had been divided into two individual rooms. The entire hall was like that with modified rooms to be catered to the business Terry Rodman was running. The wall was a cushy velvet, and the floor was hardwood. There was a chair in the farside of the room that looked a lot like a throne, and a pole across from it. The entire space was extremely voyeuristic, but you figure that’s the nature of your job.

You glance towards the man you’d brought into the room and see that he’s visibly uncomfortable, so you step away from him to give him some space to adjust to the strange circumstances. Walking over to the MP3 player on it’s dock, you shuffle the playlist that was pre programmed onto it, and listen to the bass thump through the room. It was soundproof luckily, and you knew there were no cameras as there was some sort of law against it, but that didn’t mean you’d suddenly start spilling all the things you were keeping close to your chest. You still had to be careful, on high alert.

“Do you want to sit down?” you ask him, and that seems to startle him. He looks at you, and after swallowing thickly, he goes to sit on the chair. You go over to the pole, and with carefully measured steps, you move around it, “what’s your name?”

“Spencer,” he responds, leans back in his seat, “Spencer Reid.”

“Special agent Spencer Reid,” you singsong into the air, and shoot him a slow spreading smile, “has a sort of nice ring to it.”

“It’s doctor.”

“What?”

“Doctor Spencer Reid,” he corrects nervously, seeming unsure of himself.

“You’re a doctor? Why do you work for the FBI?” you question, confusion clear as day on your face.

“Doctors don’t always necessarily have to be in a medical sense,” he says as if that fully answers your question, and then he looks up and meets your gaze, notices that you had stopped your movement quietly asking him to explain further, “I have three PhDs in mathematics, chemistry, and engineering.”

You pause fully, openly gaping at him. Then, you whistle low, and continue to circle the pole, “so, you’re a genius, then.”

Turning your gaze back to him, he seems like he wants to say more, to boast some more which you wouldn’t mind. He was turning out to be endlessly interesting. You were smart, but clearly not on the level that he was. Plus, you were of the belief that if someone had achieved something great they had every right to be proud and brag about it- but he seems to remember himself, maybe recalling a moment when talking of his accomplishments weren’t welcome, and ends up saying, “something like that.”

The two you two lapse into silence, and you continue to dance. While you were taking this time to acquaint yourself with him, you did promise at least some sort of dance. So, you start to pull out the tricks you weren’t able to on stage. You can sense his gaze on you the entire time, the same blistering gaze from when you were performing, as you wrap yourself and twirl yourself about the pole. As the song changes, you disengage from your spot on the pole, and strut down to where he was. He looks up at you, eyes dancing across your face- which was strange as you were half naked in front of him, why was Spencer so keen on making eye contact with you?- and then you’re turning around regretfully from his prying eyes. Rolling your hips back, you audibly hear him gulp.

“Do I make you uncomfortable, Dr. Reid?” you ask him, voice dropping low.

“Just a bit of a germaphobe,” he confesses, and you spin back around to face him.

“We don’t have to do this,” you tell him genuinely. While you were trying to go for some flirty teasing before the last thing you want to do is actually make him uncomfortable- you just thought that he was innocent to all of this, make him squirm a little. Maybe you had misjudged him.

“No,” he says after some thought, “but talk to me?”

“Only if you touch me.”

“Isn’t that against the club’s rules?” he’s asking in a gentle surprised tone, and you shrug. Of course he knew the club’s rules, why wouldn’t he?

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” you mumble back with a sultry smirk gracing your features, “guide me. Show me what you want.”

He hesitates, hands raising in the air, unsure of where exactly to put them. You reach forward, and bring them to your hips. His palms feel cold against your burning skin, and you suppress the shiver that threatened to make its way up your skin. You sway, showing him how to move you to the beat, but you don’t release his hands. You keep them laid on top of his own, and turn back around. As you sway, and dip slightly, you hear his breathing go strained and you smile to yourself. At least he was enjoying this. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying this, too. There was something about the way he looked at you. Like something to be treasured, something that was precious, that made your heart skip two beats at a time. You weren’t supposed to get close to clientele, but Spencer was different. He wasn’t just another patron, he was some genius doctor that seemed to understand you like no one else without even knowing your name yet.

“I’m (y/n), by the way,” you tell him suddenly, remembering how he asked you to talk during this, “thought you might want to know.” You suddenly felt shy after telling him that, thankful you were turned away from him so he couldn’t observe your expression.

“I know,” he responds bluntly, “I mean- they said your name, before they introduced you, on stage.”

Right. That had happened. You were so caught up in the present you’d already forgotten about the routine you performed earlier. Your whole world had been diminished to the small room the two of you were in. “Oh,” you say with a small laugh, suddenly embarrassed that you hadn’t anticipated him hearing that, “so, you didn’t see it in the case file?”

“There are a lot of names. I could recite them all to you, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you who’s who,” he informs you, and you turn back around with a raised brow.

“You could recite them to me?” you question, coming forward to continue the dance. The lessened proximity causes him to swallow again, and he manages to nod.

“I have an eidetic memory,” he tells you, “which means I retain all auditory and visual information in extraordinary detail. I can also read two thousand words per minute.” You try to quell your shock when hearing this, but something must have given way in your expression, because he glances away, “I know. It’s odd, but it means I’m valuable to my team and that-”

“Also means you have a lot going on up there in that big, beautiful mind of yours,” you whisper effectively cutting off the rant he was about to go on, and he looks back at you, “what a terrible burden.”

He opens his mouth, and then closes it. Clearly, no one had said something like that to him. You assume people either teased him for his knowledge, or marvelled in it. No one had considered what kind of toll it could take on his day to day life. “Sometimes,” he confesses, hand travelling up your side, feeling the skin there experimentally. You’d feel uncomfortable if it weren’t him. You knew that he wasn’t looking at you like some object, some prize. It was just you two, two humans sharing time together.

The song picks up and swells, the bass heavily thudding in the empty space of the room, and he makes a small face at that, you laugh and spin back around dropping your hips down and giving them an experimental roll on his lap, “don’t like the music?”

The shift from a serious conversation to a more lighter topic shocks Spencer momentarily, and you hear him suck in a sharp breath as you move, “not what I usually listen to.”

“What do you listen to?”

“Classical,” he tells you, and you snort.

“Of course, you do,” you mumble and he makes a soft noise of indignation at that. You lean back against him, lowering yourself in a seated position on his lap, dropping your head to his shoulder. He angles his face to look at you, and you slowly bring one of his hands up across your abdomen, and the other slowly down to your thigh. The mood shifts again in the room, feels heavier and deeper than a regular dance. “Why did you ask me to take you back here?” he asks you then, speaking in barely above a whisper.

Now it’s your turn to gape at him, and to keep your mind busy, you bring his hands down your inner thigh just by your knee. Feeling his fingers move across your body sets something alight in you, makes you feel warm all over. He seems to be feeling something too if his blown pupils, and heavy breathing is of any indication. The hand on your abdomen moves then without you having to guide it. Comes up to your collarbone, and rests against your throat. You release your hold on his hand, and bring it down to his forearm wrapping around his sleeve. It all becomes too much, and you realize you’d been gone for too long. People were sure to be looking for you. Time was running out, you had to ask now. “Will you meet me somewhere? Outside of town? I’ll explain everything,” you tell him vaguely, and he furrows his brow, “please. I can’t tell you anything here.”

“Are you okay?” he asks then, and you make a soft noise, seeing the tender way he’s looking at you. His hand near the base of your throat comes up to touch your cheek, the touch was feather light and tentative.

“I will be. I promise to explain everything, but I can’t do it here,” and with a shaky breath, you say, “he’ll know. I can’t have him knowing.”

He seems to grapple with that, some moral code obviously coming into play, but he’s nodding after a moment. With that, you’re standing and detangling yourself from him, going over to stop the music. Now that the room was silent, it felt stifling. Overwhelming. You hear him shift in his seat, and then he’s producing a card from his back pocket. You return to take it from him, seeing his number written on the front and his name. Running a finger over the words, you sigh. Relief floods your system. The finish line was in sight. After tomorrow, this nightmare will be over.

“Wait to leave after me. I’ll call you tonight,” you tell him, and put his card in your bra. He bobs his head in agreement, and then you leave swiftly, not trusting yourself to stay any longer.

Exiting the hallway, you stop by the bouncer, flirt with him a little to avoid any questions he may have, and then make your way back into the lobby area. A crawling sensation creeps up your back, and you spin around to see if anyone was watching you. Your gaze goes up to the balcony and you’re frightened to see there wasn’t anyone there. It must have been your imagination. There were tons of people all around you. Anyone could be looking at you right now. Besides it was the end of your night, and you had a phone call to make.

It was about three am, the only people on the streets were the drunks trying to hail a cab home and bartenders closing up shop. Sylvia treks down the street, arms crossed over her chest. She lived close by to Pyramids, so she’d be home soon. That didn’t make the walk back any less terrifying. The brisk night air bites her sweaty skin, and she sucks on a cigarette to calm her nerves. After one large pull, a noise behind her sets her mind alert. Glancing behind herself, she sighs in relief, and steps towards the cat that had bounded out of the alleyway.

“What are you doing all alone out here?” she coos, bending down to give it a scratch behind its ears. The cat purrs and bumps her hand happily, “do you have an owner? You can come home with me if you want. Too cold for you to be out here all alone.”

Before she is able to scoop the cat up out of the alleyway, a figure is coming up behind her and grabbing her by the waist, covering her mouth to muffle the shrill scream that threatened to bubble up past her lips. She flails, kicks into the air, and watches the cat sprint away from the conflict. Just as she’s about to hit back, and loosen her attacker’s grip a silver knife is coming up in front of her.

“She should have known better, I told her not to do it,” the man is whispering frantically into her ear, and then she’s seeing white as the knife plunges deep into her system, as she slips into a deep eternal sleep she hears, “I told her I’d make her regret it.”

And then darkness flooded her vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments & criticism always welcome<3 be kind to yourselves!!


	3. i'd do anything for you (in the dark)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I suppose I’m just waiting for the time when the decisions I make won’t be so fatal, life or death, you know?” she confesses quietly, sounding almost afraid to speak the words into existence, “do you ever feel like that?”
> 
> Spencer stares at the ceiling after she asks him that, because lord, what a big question. Everything that he did had some sort of consequence- whether that consequence be good or bad is another conversation to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really,, don't like this chapter HAHA so!! take it all with a grain of salt i wrote it and rewrote it a few times
> 
> it feels a lot like filler but there is some importance to it :/ anyways enjoy!

The profile had been delivered on Friday. They’d told the police department that the man they were looking for was in his mid thirties, caucasian, and on some kind of power trip. He got off on stalking helpless women, and killed them at their most vulnerable state. Typically cloaked by the night sky and in a low traffic area which meant he was ashamed of what he was doing and wanted to hide it away from the public. The derogatory terms carved into their stomachs were a message to the victim themself which meant that the unsub had some personal connection to them. Whatever the unsub was unhappy with that they were doing is what they were punished for, and the heart he took from them is his trophy. A token from the killing to remind himself of what he’d done.

All those words were bouncing around in Spencer’s head after his encounter with her. She clearly had something important to tell him, something that was troubling her- and if he weren’t so distracted in that moment he would have tried to get it out of her. End this wild goose chase, and constant circling around the metaphorical elephant in the room. But she’d been right there, and had told him to touch her. Had allowed him to feel something so deep and intense that he couldn’t think of murders and profiles and the case he was working. She’s coaxed him into a corner and now had him wrapped around her finger without him even realizing, and he wanted to be there. He wanted to be present and in that moment with her the entire time. She’d called his brain beautiful, and left him speechless. Validated the turmoil he had growing in him since he was kid, the burden it was to remember everything and to see everything. He felt held by her even when he was the one caressing her skin, and feeling the heat radiating off of her. While touch was something he actively avoided, he’d folded under her easily and allowed himself to just be with her.

Normally, Spencer had to say an overabundance of words to get his points across, over explain to make people understand. He spoke first, and explained later when he was met with confusion and questions- but with her, it only took one look for her to understand, and if there was any perplexity in what he was saying she waited patiently and allowed him to get his thoughts in order before he spoke. They said nothing of importance to each other in the time they were in that red room together, and yet he felt like he’d said more to her than he ever had to anyone else in his entire life.

It was overwhelming, this sudden influx of feeling. He reminded himself not to get too close, and yet here he was falling all over himself just to catch a glimpse of her. Walking out into the lobby he meets back up with JJ and Rossi, both of whom send him looks of equal bewilderment and concern. 

“Where did you disappear off to?” JJ is asking him with a smile, “some girl whisk you away? I didn’t peg you as the type to get caught up in all of this,” motions in the general vicinity.

He considers explaining what was happening to him, the things he’d experienced in the short time they’d been in the city, but figures he’d tell the rest of the team when he had something more concrete. After the phone call- if she would call at all. Maybe she was just pulling his chain.

“I was able to talk to a few of the girls that work here, but I wasn’t able to get anything,” he lies quickly, “what about you guys?”

“Nothing,” Rossi shrugs, “but they do serve immaculate martinis here.”

“You got a martini?” JJ asks, offended.

“Figured I may as well since this has been a bust,” Rossi says, and then laughs, “what? Am I not allowed to enjoy a martini every now and then?”

“Didn’t say that,” she responds, raises her hands in mock defense, and then motions towards the door, “let’s go meet up with the others back at the hotel. Start fresh in the morning.”

Spencer follows them out of the building, and into the SUV. He takes the backseat and once again watches through the window as the club disappears in the distance. He was right, the lights did extend all the way down the street.

After they get to the hotel, Spencer retreats to his room, and pulls out his sleep clothes from his go bag. He takes a shower- a cold shower- and tries to push away anymore thoughts of her but to no avail. He stands under the spray of the water and holds his face as he tries to forget the way she had unfolded under his touch, the way she seemed to shy away from his gaze. He definitely doesn’t think about the way she pressed up against him on his lap, draped herself over him like she was made to be there, and gripped his forearm, fingers digging into the skin beneath his sleeve, and looked at him with such a passion that it nearly knocked the wind out of him.

He turns the temperature even colder, and doesn’t think about any of it.

Once he steps out of the shower, he changes and towels off his hair, entering the bedroom and glancing towards his phone which was vibrating on his nightstand. The caller ID lit up the screen with a number he didn’t have saved, and he realizes with a sinking feeling that it had to be her calling him. Just like she promised.

Tossing the towel aside, he grabs his phone, and sits on his bed, swipes to answer, and greets her with a soft, “hi.”

“Hey,” she responds, her voice filling his ear and making his toes curl, “sorry. I know it’s late.”

“We just got back to the hotel, it’s okay,” he assures her.

Silence falls between them as they’re both anticipating the other to talk. Spencer opens his mouth and says, “So-”

But she’s countering at the same time with, “maybe we go to-”

“Sorry, sorry, go ahead,” he says with a laugh, and her own breathy sweet laugh is the response he gets. It makes his heart clench up in his chest, and he has a sudden urge to hear it again.

“Sorry, um,” she starts to say, “could we go to Boulder City tomorrow morning? Early. Maybe around five or so? I can come and get you, just send me the address to the hotel you’re at.”

Boulder City is a good half hour out of Las Vegas, and he’s glancing at the clock to see it was around one in the morning. He’s had to be a functioning human on less sleep before, so he agrees on the time and promises to send her the address immediately after she tells him the plan. 

Once again, they lapse into a lull of conversation having talked about what they intended to talk about. A part of Spencer didn’t want to hang up the phone, but he knew he had to go to sleep relatively soon to be awake for when she would come to get him. Against his better judgment, he’s asking, “did you get home safe?”

“Yeah,” she replies, a certain relieved tone taking over her voice, “I just got home and called you.”

“Well, I can let you-”

“No. Can we talk for just a second more? If you have to go I get it. We’ll see each other in a few hours, but I don’t want to..” the unspoken ‘I don’t want to hang up yet’ hangs heavy between them, and Spencer nods his agreement even though she can’t see it.

“Tell me about yourself?” he’s supplying, sparking up a different conversation, and she sighs on the other end of the line.

“Where to start? Uh, I just moved to Las Vegas. Fresh start, and all that. I was struggling working a hostess job, so.. stripping,” she laughs. He hears shifting in the background and can tell she’s lain in her bed. He mimics that, and lays down, rests his hand on his stomach as she continues to talk, “but I love it. I really do. If you ignore the bad bits of it- which comes with every job- it’s so rewarding, and the people you meet are fantastic. It’s also good money, but I’m still scraping by. I guess that’s just the nature of the game, though.”

He hums in response, reaches over to turn off his bedside lamp, and waits to see if she’s going to keep talking.

“I suppose I’m just waiting for the time when the decisions I make won’t be so fatal, life or death, you know?” she confesses quietly, sounding almost afraid to speak the words into existence, “do you ever feel like that?”

Spencer stares at the ceiling after she asks him that, because lord, what a big question. Everything that he did had some sort of consequence- whether that consequence be good or bad is another conversation to have.

“Yes,” he tells her honestly, “all the time.”

She breathes in deep then, he closes his eyes and counts the seconds before she replies, “it’s getting late, Spencer. Should probably head to bed.”

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees, sleep already taking over his system, “If you lower your room temperature down to about sixty degrees you’ll fall asleep faster.”

“Sweet dreams, nerd,” she laughs again, and then the line goes dead, and he’s left there still with the phone pressed to his ear.

What did she mean by her decisions being fatal? He supposes he’ll learn what that means soon enough. Spencer didn’t know what to prepare himself for tomorrow- or rather, in a few hours, and what raised more questions was why is he so quick to trust her? Maybe it was a gut feeling, but that didn’t mean that he should leave town just to get some information out of her in the middle of the case. The lack of professionalism and the absurdity of the entire situation wasn’t lost on him. He had to tell someone about it, he just had to, otherwise the guilt of going behind his team’s backs would eat him alive.

Some time after having that crisis Spencer was able to fall asleep, but it was just a couple hours later there was a knock on the door. It was frantic, and quick. Spencer blinked himself awake, and rushed to his feet, jogging to the door. Flinging it open, he’s staring at Hotch with a high level of concern in his gaze.

“They found another body,” his boss is saying to him, and Spencer nods, shutting the door and going to get changed. He checks his watch for the time. It was only three thirty in the morning.

Once he’s ready, he leaves the room, and sets a timer for himself to be back at the hotel before five. Now with what he presumes the rest of the team being awake leaving town was going to be exponentially harder. Piling into the SUV, Spencer is silent during the ride but he listens to the conversation surrounding him.

“Victim is another one of the club workers,” Emily says to his left, reading it off of her phone, “name is Sylvia Trenton, she’s thirty three. Older than the rest of the victims, but she did work on the same day as them. There has to be some sort of connection there.”

“Heart taken?” Hotch is asking, and Emily nods.

“Yeah, but the nature of the kill was apparently more severe than the rest,” she sighs sadly. Emily always has been more empathetic than the rest of them- except Garcia, of course.

“So, this must be a personal kill, then,” Spencer concludes, wrings his hands together, “we find the connection, and we find our unsub.”

The rest of the ride is spent in silence until they get to the alleyway. Exiting the car, Spencer glances around the area as he puts on his gloves. There’s a cigarette a few feet away from the body, and Spencer picks it up with a pair of tweezers, asks for a bag from one of the nearby forensics workers. After that’s taken care of he goes over to the body, and crouches down in front of it. “Look at the way he’s slashed her, and there’s no words or demeaning titles carved into her skin,” he tells Emily and Hotch, “he’s completely changed his M.O.- this kill was a message to whatever object of affection he’s killing for, totally spur of the moment. I don’t think he actually wanted to kill her.”

“All the girls have been workers on Saturday nights, it has to be someone with access to the schedules, and it has to have something to do with Saturdays- maybe it’s an important day of the week for the unsub, or rather it’s more about the people that work on Saturdays,” Emily rambles, “let’s see if Garcia can find anything important that Pyramids experienced on a Saturday, maybe that’s the next stone to turn.”

“Alright, let’s meet the others back at the station,” Hotch agrees, already taking his phone out to call Penelope.

Spencer takes his time standing up, eyes never leaving the body. They really hadn’t gotten much closer to finding the unsub, and it felt like he was right under their nose. He’s remembering the strange conversation he had with the club owner, but despite it raising a few red flags on the level of a boss being upset with his worker he hadn’t given much thought to it. Maybe it was time to revisit that.

Realizing that Emily and Hotch had walked off without him, he jogs to catch up to them. “Can you guys drop me off back at the hotel? I think I accidentally left my phone there,” he tells them, and Hotch nods but Emily sends him a look as she enters the car.

“You left your phone? You, Doctor Spencer Reid, did?” she asks with a small laugh, “am I living in some parallel universe?”

“Anyone can be forgetful, Prentiss, even Reid,” Hotch says, putting the car in drive, and that seems to quiet her. She does send him another look through the rearview mirror, and he has to turn his gaze away from her scrutinizing eyes. No matter how sleep deprived he may be he never forgot important devices. Never left without his badge, his wallet, his phone. Luckily, he’d thought ahead this time and actually did leave his phone in his room. That way it was just a white lie, and not just a flat out cover up. 

They drop him off back at the hotel, and he tells Hotch he’ll just carpool with the others to the police department. As he enters the building, he goes to the stairwell, checking his watch. It was four thirty- right on schedule. Taking the stairs two at a time, he’s not paying attention to whoever just opened the door to go down the stairs.

“Kid,” the voice is saying, and Spencer is looking up to see Rossi, “where’s the others?”

“Emily and Hotch are back at the police station,” he says hurriedly, “they found another body.”

“Same guy?” 

“Most definitely,” he responds, and goes to take another step, but is stopped by a hand.

“Where are you going?” Rossi asks him, and he hadn’t anticipated this. In hindsight, he should have, but he was tired and not really thinking things through. Clearly.

“My mom,” he lies, and immediately regrets it. He felt wrong using his mom as an excuse, “I left my phone here, and I got a text from her last night. I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

Rossi seems to soften some at that, and he nods, “keep us updated.” He claps his shoulder, and begins his descent down the stairs towards the lobby. Spencer waits on the steps until he hears the door shut behind Rossi. He checks his watch again, and seeing it was only fifteen minutes before five, he sprints up the steps and to his room. Swiping the key card, he grabs his phone off the charger, and immediately calls Hotch.

“I can’t make it back to the department,” he tells him as soon as he answers and before he can be questioned he says, “my mom.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah.. yeah, they just want me to stop by for a second. Apparently she’s been asking for me,” also not a total lie, but it didn’t make him feel less terrible, “keep me updated on the case? I’ll only be gone for at most an hour or two.”

There’s a pregnant pause on the other end of the phone, and Spencer feels his heart drop to the bottom of his feet, but then Hotch is saying, “sure, Reid. Take as much time as you need.”

Guilty guilty guilty. What the hell was wrong with him? He needed to tell Hotch what was really happening, he shouldn’t just be running off right now.

“Hotch-”

“Yeah?”

He sits there, checks his watch and sees it’s nearing five, swallows thickly, “never mind. I’ll tell you when I get back.”

After he hangs up the phone, he scrubs a hand over his face tiredly, and fights the urge to lay on the bed and take a nap. Skip this whole ordeal, and just meet up with the others later. Maybe actually visit his mother and see how she was holding up. As soon as he’s seriously considering that option, his phone rings and he sees the string of numbers that lit up his phone screen mere hours earlier.

He answers it, and before he can greet her, she’s saying, “I’m outside,” and hangs up the phone. Looking down at the ‘call end’ screen on his phone he’s narrowing his eyes- weird.

Making sure the hall was clear, he bounds back down the steps and into the lobby. As he exits the building, he’s relieved to see that both of the SUVs are gone, and that there’s a rusty dirt covered jeep in front of the building. He sees her in the front seat, and approaches the passenger side, pulling the door open and sliding into the seat.

The radio was off, and she has this vacant look in her eyes, and he’s not quite sure where it came from. He does take a moment to appreciate the way she looks, and the fact that she’s mostly covered up compared to every time he’s seen her up until that point. Just some sweatpants and a baggy tee shirt are on her frame, and he suddenly feels overdressed in his slacks and sweater vest.

She finally notices that he had joined her, and puts the car in drive, and makes her way onto the road- she drives using stick shift, and he takes a moment to be impressed.

“Do you need GPS at all?” he’s asking to break the terse silence that’d overtaken the car, and she just shakes her head, frowning.

“I have the route memorized.”

“Do you drive to Boulder City often?” he further questions, and she sends him a look, almost trying to tell him to stop, but answers regardless of her annoyance.

“Just to get away.”

“Nice,” he comments, turns his eyes to the road and away from her. He wonders what had happened to get her in such a bad mood.

Finally, she reaches over and turns on the radio, flipping through the channels until she settles on switching it to the CD player. A song fills the car that he doesn’t recognize, and he wants to ask her what it is, and before he opens his mouth she’s beating him to it.

“It’s called Seigfried by Frank Ocean,” she informs him, and he hums.

“I’ve never listened to him,” he tells her, and she manages a small smile at that.

“Really? I’d never guess,” there she was. Sly smiles, and teasing words that made his cheeks warm. The melancholic melody fills the empty space of the car, and Spencer feels a slight tug at his heart. They were sad, the words of the song. Definitely not what he’d been expecting considering the only things he’s heard her listen to and had begun associating her with was twenties speakeasy music and tasteless R&B. Don’t get him wrong, he didn’t mind R&B, but the stuff that she played during her private dance just wasn’t good.

“I’m sorry,” she breaks the peaceful quiet that had come up between them, “I’m not really a morning person, I normally don’t get up before two or three.”

“In the afternoon?”

“Don’t act so surprised! I had an early night last night, normally I get home around three or four. Luckily, Sylvia- one of my friends at work- took my later shift, and closed for me,” she says with a fond smile, flexes her hand against the wheel, and now Spencer just stares at her.

Sylvia wasn’t supposed to be walking out that late. The blade wasn’t meant for her. The unsub had meant to kill the girl sitting next to him, and he sinks back in his seat. Was she the connection?

“You knew Sylvia?” he asks quietly, and she looks at him like he was crazy, laughs nervously.

“Yeah, of course, what do you mean by knew?” she says, that befuddled look on her face not leaving.

Spencer knows deep down he shouldn’t tell her, but the words just tumble out of his mouth, “we found a body. This morning,” he watches as she stones her expression and how her nostrils flare a little, “the body’s already been identified. I’m so sorry.”

He observes how she goes from a quelled sort of sadness anticipating the worst to full blown grief after hearing exactly what she didn’t want to hear. Turning off the road onto a side street, and covering her face with her hands, she’s trying desperately to quiet her wailing. Spencer unbuckles his seatbelt, and reaches towards her, but she flinches and tries to move away from him so he backs off. Sits there quietly, and listens with a heavy heart to her crying, folds his hands on his lap and waits patiently for her to finish sobbing.

They stay on the side street for what feels like forever, and then she’s breathing in a large shaky breath of air, and wiping at her nose. She’s not crying anymore, but she does sniffle a few times here and there, crosses her arms over her stomach. Then, she’s looking at him, and he’s instinctively returning her gaze. She looks wrecked, puffy eyes and a runny nose. “She was a good person, Spencer,” she tells him firmly, and he can’t seem to make any words leave his mouth, “can you drive?”

“Sure, yeah,” he agrees, and unbuckles his seatbelt again switching sides with her. He adjusts his seat to make room for his legs, and then gets the car in motion. Luckily, he’d read a pamphlet a few years back on how to drive stick shift out of pure curiosity, and then they’re back on the road. The song had changed some time ago, and she’s staring blankly at the stereo as the lyrics describe some heartbreaking scenarios. An hour or so had passed since they’d set out onto the road, and had taken a detour for the news of Sylvia’s death, so the sun was just beginning to show itself back in the sky.

It was still a bit dark out, but a beautiful light blue was beginning to bleed into the dark blue, and a yellow was streaked into the ombre it created. Spencer takes a second to look at it, take it in for a second as they drive down the highway, and then he’s sensing some movement to his right. Her hand slips over his on the stick, and wraps around his fingers, thumb caressing his knuckles. He chances a look towards her, and just sees her glassy tear filled eyes reflecting the sunrise back to him.

“Try to get some sleep,” he tells her, and then looks back to the road. She seems to take that advice to heart as within seconds he can hear her breathing slow down, and her sniffling stops.


	4. want to see nirvana (but don't want to die yet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not doing anything,” you yell back, now suddenly feeling defensive, “I thought you could help.”
> 
> “I’m trying to help, but I’m just.. I don’t know what,” he’s calmed down some now, and you’re hopelessly lost in whatever confrontation the two of you just had. It felt uncharacteristic, but then you’re realizing you’ve placed him on the same pedestal that Terry put you on. Expected so much from him, and are now feeling betrayed when he didn’t do exactly what you wanted. You’ve been operating on the belief that you were better than Terry somehow, but maybe you’re just as cruel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update!! work sort of kicked my ass but here have this trash<3 i promise things will get better soon but we have to get past the obstacles first before happily ever after

You awake when a hand jostles your shoulder. Startling, you move back, and are momentarily confused as to where you are. Suddenly, it all comes back to you. Picking Spencer up, him telling you Sylvia was killed, and now you were parked in front of a diner in Boulder City.

“A diner?” you ask him groggily, and he shrugs.

“First place I saw when I got off the exit, so.. a diner,” he tells you in a matter of fact tone, and you make a noise of understanding. Makes perfect sense, especially since it was only a little past six in the morning, nothing else would be open at this time.

The two of you leave the car, and get a table by the entrance. He orders water, and you order a black coffee which he makes a face at. Raising a brow at him, he doesn’t explain the face he makes right away, so you sigh. “What?” you ask, maybe in a bit too annoyed sort of voice.

“Nothing, just that there was a study done that insinuates black coffee drinkers have the same characteristics of psychopaths,” he says with a shrug, and you stare at him mouth agape, “the bitter taste has been associated with Macheviallian traits such as narcissism, sadism, and extreme aggression. People who use sugar and cream have more agreeable personalities.”

“Spencer,” you sigh again, “it’s way too early in the morning for this.”

“Take it with a grain of salt, I’m sure you’re not actually a psychopath,” he says with a laugh, the sound bubbling past his lips and making your cheeks warm. He glances over the menu quickly, and you pick at the vinyl of the seat you were on.

There was no easy way to lead into the conversation you wanted to have. You couldn’t just be out with it and say that Terry was murdering all these women. The confession had to be poised, and had to be brought up delicately with extreme caution. You had to be careful to not incriminate yourself, but how could you not? You may have not been the one to actually kill them- kill Sylvia- but you still knew. Knew everything from what Terry did with the hearts to why he was killing in the first place.

“Why are you nervous?” Spencer is suddenly asking, breaking you from your train of thought and you snap your gaze up to meet his.

“How can you tell?” you ask him, breathing out shakily.

“It’s my job to tell,” he explains, “I’m a profiler, so I have to tell when people exhibit certain behaviors.”

“Oh,” you exhale, glancing out the window to your left. This was going to be harder than anticipated then. It was easy to forget that he was in some sort of law enforcement. He was so kind and sweet, unlike any cops or detectives you’ve ever met, but you’re being reminded of his job and why he’s the one you have to talk to.

“It’s okay,” he assures you, arm reaching over onto the table, almost reaching out towards you but he thinks twice and retracts the hand immediately- if he hadn’t you’d have met him halfway, you’re partially thankful that he did back off- and continues on, “whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

If only things were that easy. The waitress comes back and sets your drinks down, asks if you wanted anything to eat and you both decline the offer, not wanting anymore interruptions. Once she’s gone and out of sight, you drop your head, cross your arms over your stomach.

“It all started about two months ago when I first started working for Pyramids. I worked at some hotel restaurant as a hostess before, and I just wasn’t making enough to pay rent. I had to cut back on meals, couldn’t buy any new clothes, the AC in my apartment was always busted and I couldn’t fix it. I was barely thriving, and I at least wanted to survive, you know? So, I started job hunting. Almost got a job at a retirement home, at a golf course, you name it: I applied for it. Then, Pyramids sort of fell into my lap. Terry was looking for more dancers and I’d never.. done anything like stripping or exotic dancing before but the pay was good and I got to keep the tips I made so it seemed fine on paper. I auditioned for Terry, and he hired me almost on the spot. Said I had the it factor, star power. I’ve always.. sort of struggled with my looks, how I present myself to people, so stripping seemed to be a good place to build confidence, and with Terry’s insistence that I start as soon as possible he put me on the busiest day of the week,” you spill, and Spencer stares at you unyielding and is incessantly patient as you ramble, “everything was fine. Everything was great. I was making enough to pay rent, I could buy some finer things to wear, anything that was broken in my apartment was fixed, and I had a good group of girls to hang out with a couple days out of the week. I don’t have a lot of family. My parents aren’t in my life, wanted nothing to do with me when I told them I didn’t want to go to school and I wanted to move, and I don’t have any siblings so it was really nice to have what felt like a found family for a while. But then Terry started.. getting too close. He’d come up to me after routines and would shower me in compliments, would touch my arm and face and tell me how beautiful I was, how well I was doing at his club and the girls noticed.”

“They noticed the special treatment?”

“Yeah, the special treatment, and problems.. started coming up. Girls would exclude me from conversations and ignore me at my vanity, would say snide things to me in the hallway, hide my clothes, really petty childish stuff. All I had during that time was Sylvia who would tell them to fuck off and assure me I was fine. The pressure of Terry constantly getting in my space, and the girls suddenly deciding they didn’t like me was too much so I tried to put my two weeks in. Just get out and find somewhere else. I had enough money to get me by until I found a new job, so I wasn’t worried. I just didn’t want to be in that environment anymore. But when I tried to talk to Terry about it, he freaked out. Begged me to stay, and told me he’d do anything to make me stay. I’m so dumb,” you stop, rake a hand through your hair. Finally, Spencer reaches out, takes your hand and holds it in his. Runs his thumb over your knuckles reassuringly, and you nod, “I told him to make it stop. To talk to the girls or something and let them know I wasn’t a threat or anything. I was just trying to get by, I never asked to be special to him. I never wanted to be on this pedestal.”

He seems to be connecting the dots then, releases your hand and leans back. You wish momentarily that you could tell what he was thinking, to know what was happening in his brain. It was painful to be left so in the dark.

“The day after that he called me into his office,” you say quietly, a napkin from the holder on the table finding its way between your fingers, you pull at the edges making a little mountain of paper nervously, “he.. videotaped killing Willow. He played it for me, I just sat there and listened to it- the whole thing. I just sat there, and I thought maybe it was some sick joke. Some prank. Maybe it was some cruel way to make the girls stop but then he showed me the heart and I’ve never seen a real heart. Only pictures, but I knew. Spencer, I knew it was real, and then I threw up.” Even now you feel queasy, this sick churning in your stomach as you recall the events on that fateful day. You finally turn your eyes back to him, and he seems lost in his mind. At a loss, you continue on, it was like a dam had broken in you and now you wouldn’t be able to stop talking even if you tried, “I told him he was sick. That he needed to go to the police, but he told me he did it all for me, and I was so scared, Spencer. He was so proud of himself like he’d done me a favor, and if I went against that because who knows what he would have done? And then the next week it was Emma, and the same thing happened. I wanted to go to the police but every time I thought about going I just imagined me under his knife. I’m so sorry, I should have done more, I know. I know that I should have done more, but I’m so terrified and I don’t know where else to go.” He’s still silent, contemplative, staring out the window like the vast nothingness was more important than the way you were physically crumbling in front of him. Desperately, you say, “please say something. Anything.”

“Lima Syndrome, I should have seen it before,” he whispers mostly to himself, and you sit back on the bench, eyes wide, “we need to get back to the city.” He throws a few bills on the table, and stands. You stay seated, frozen in your spot. “I need to tell my team, let’s go,” he insists, walking out of the diner. You watch him go, and then scramble to catch up with him.

“Spencer, wait,” you yell, following him out into the parking lot.

“No- no, this is it, we need to bring him in and you need to tell all of that to my team, why are you telling this just to me? Why didn’t you just go to the station at the start of this weekend? Why did you play this.. this game, and have me run around in circles,” he sounds mad, but in a soft sort of way, like he’s not actually upset but just grappling with the way things have played out.

“I couldn’t, I didn’t know what to do.”

“Tell somebody. Anybody,” he says while pulling open the car door, “get in.”

“No, let’s talk.”

“There’s nothing more to say, you’ve said everything,” he shouts back with a twisted shaky laugh leaving his mouth, and you reel back.

“I thought you’d understand,” you whisper, and he gives you a strange look, a multitude of emotions flashing across his face.

“I’m trying to do my job, and you.. you pulled me into this room and I haven’t been able to leave,” and now it’s your turn to feel hurt, struck, “I don’t know what I was expecting coming out here with you. I don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you yell back, now suddenly feeling defensive, “I thought you could help.”

“I’m trying to help, but I’m just.. I don’t know what,” he’s calmed down some now, and you’re hopelessly lost in whatever confrontation the two of you just had. It felt uncharacteristic, but then you’re realizing you’ve placed him on the same pedestal that Terry put you on. Expected so much from him, and are now feeling betrayed when he didn’t do exactly what you wanted. You’ve been operating on the belief that you were better than Terry somehow, but maybe you’re just as cruel.

“Okay,” you respond quietly, getting into the driver’s seat and waiting for him to join you on the passenger side. Once he’s buckled in, you peel away from the diner and start heading back to Las Vegas, presumably now to the police department instead of the comfort of your apartment.

Once on the road, you’re suffocating under the weight of the silence between you two. You want to say something, break the tension, but it felt too delicate. That if you were to say something he’d just lash out again. It doesn’t matter though because not two seconds after thinking that he’s opening his mouth.

“Why did you do it?” he’s asking, and you spare him a confused glance.

“Do what?” you question, helplessly unsure of what he may mean, and he just shakes his head.

“No one’s ever done that to me before,” and you send him another powerless look, “the dance. The flirting. All of it.”

Oh. So, he was upset because this felt personal. That made more sense than anything else, but you’ve only known each other for less than three days. How have things devolved that quickly?

“I wanted to,” you say and that felt like the wrong thing to say, and if his reaction is anything to go by it definitely was.

“You wanted to?” he says, rearing back and running a hand through his hair, “so, this really was a game to you.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that,” you backtrack, “not like that. I wanted to, because.. you’re you, Spencer. You say funny things in a sweet concerned way, and no one has ever done that for me. I’ve never had someone look at me like I hung the moon in the sky.”

“I don’t look at you like that, and that’s impossible for you to do,” he says, laughing incredulously at himself.

“You do! You do, and I thought just maybe that you might be different than all the other men in my life who have made me feel so powerless. Knowing you existed, knowing you were there made me have hope,” you say, and he finally falls silent, looks at you sidelong, “for once I thought I had some control over my life.”

The silence drags on after that, and once again you felt like you were drowning in it. Just falling deeper and deeper into this mess you alone have created, and there was nowhere to turn to now. Sylvia was gone, Spencer’s trust had been lost, you didn’t have anybody else. All you had was a museum of ghosts, and Terry Rodman.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you tell him then, and he seems to perk up at that, “but life isn’t easy, Spencer, of that I’m sure you already know. Terry has people in every corner of the world, and I couldn’t just flat out tell someone what happened. He could have.. he would have done something to me too, and call that selfish but I already told you I want to survive.”

This all felt overdramatic, too intense for how early it was, but maybe the two of you were overreacting because of the lack of sleep you both had. Maybe it was the miscommunication, or the connection that had so suddenly and fully overtaken the both of you, but at the end of the road it was just you and Spencer yelling needlessly at each other in a jeep on the highway back to Las Vegas.

“Okay,” he seems quelled by that, and you sigh a heavy breath of relief at him finally understanding, “but you have to tell the rest of my team. I have to tell them what’s happened. No more lies and sneaking around.”

“Sure, yeah,” you agree in a whisper, and then it’s just once again the silence and the low hum of the car driving that fills the air.

Spencer was right about black coffee. It was bitter, and didn’t go down easy. You don’t even know why you like to drink it, but maybe that really did make you some sort of psychopath.


	5. that kind of coffin don't need lean (rest in peace)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t want to believe it,” you start out, sighing out a soft breath of air before continuing, “I never wanted the special treatment, or the extra gifts or money. I was making more than enough without his handouts. The girls took notice of it, and I tried to not let it get to me, but I had to try and quit once my work environment got worse. More toxic. It was like I was an outsider for months, looking through a window at the other girls as they went about their lives and had fun at work. If anything, I was jealous of them, not the other way around.”
> 
> “Jealous enough to kill them?” Jareau asks, and you sit up straighter, stare her down from across the table. The silence was thick in the room, almost deafening. That admission, that sort of speak, had you on edge immediately. As if a switch had been flipped inside of you, you’re on the defense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi lovelies! long time no talk! i recently had time to write up another chapter for this fic and decided to finally finish it. i have an outline in place, and will update it as i have more time, but for now i hope you like this new chapter<3

“And that’s it,” Spencer says, hands wrapped around a mug firmly, the steam from the tea curling ruefully into the air. He chances a look up and observes the different expressions on his team’s faces.

Hotch is stone faced, fingers gripping the back of a chair. Emily has her arms crossed over her chest, a furrow in her brow as she processes what he’s just told them. JJ seems confused, but empathy is clear in her Face. Rossi is stood in the corner of the room, and he’s not even looking at Spencer, but he doesn’t seem to be upset by the events that Spencer has just laid out just contemplative. Derek is the one that Spencer really looked to, and his face was screwed up in a way that Spencer can’t quite place.

“She’s the girl you were talking to that first day at the club, right?” He says, and Spencer nods, “the one the club owner got possessive over?”

“Right, we both knew it was strange so when Rossi, JJ, and I returned to the club the next day I was keen on finding her again. She clearly wanted to tell me something, but he had interrupted us the day before and just seeing him made her scared,” Spencer explains again, and a few out of the group nods their understanding, “I didn’t want to do this without you guys, honestly, but I didn’t think she would tell me anything if I suddenly approached her with the entire team.”

“Does she seem like the type to shut down if you were to do that?” Emily asks him, and he thinks hard on that question for a second.

“Yes, absolutely,” he finally answers, and there’s a tension in the room that releases then. They all seem to believe him, to see that he was operating in everyone’s best interest and not just his own. Everyone knows he wouldn’t just run off and go out with some girl while on a case, that wasn’t Spencer Reid.

“You did what you thought was best, Reid,” Hotch says in a final tone, communicating to everyone to not harass Spencer with this particular matter, “but I’m not sending you to interview her. You’re too close to the case now-”

“Hotch-”

“You are. JJ and Emily will go in. You said she was more open towards women? So, the women will go in, try to see if we can get anything else out of her that she hasn’t told you,” it was a sound plan, but the thought of her being alone in the room without him made Spencer feel itchy. He knew he was being unfair to her at the diner, blew up when he shouldn’t have, lashed out without warning, but it was shocking to have so many things come to light. “Morgan, call Garcia and try to get some more information on this girl,” Hotch says then, and Spencer is standing.

“Do you think she’s more involved in this other than being a victim?” Spencer asks, and Hotch sends him a look of warning, so he sits back down, rests his arms on the armrest of the chair and clenches his fist around the front of it.

“We have to consider all possibilities, Reid,” Hotch informs him, and Spencer knows he’s right, but he also knows that she had nothing to do with the murders other than being a victim of circumstance. She wasn’t the type to kill, just the news of Sylvia’s death had her reeling- or maybe it was a manipulation tactic. He can’t discard any theory out the window just because she had been kind to him, smiled at him sweetly, and told him things he’d never heard before in such a genuine tone he had no other choice but to believe her.

She wasn’t a killer, though. She couldn’t be.

You sat in the interview room idly, hands wrapped around a cool glass of water. The condensation cools the pads of your fingers, and sends goosebumps up your arms. You draw a circular pattern into the cool chill, and keep your eyes on the rim of the glass, cautious to chance a look up at the mirror opposite of you.

You’d seen the TV shows, the movies- you knew there was someone standing behind the glass, watching and waiting, waiting for you to crack or fall apart. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, wouldn’t give them any reason to suspect you of anything more than being a victim in all of this. Because you  _ are _ . You are a victim in this whole situation. Terry had cornered you and made you feel like you were just as bad as him. You wonder if Terry likes black coffee. That’d explain a lot if what Spencer said was true.

_ Spencer _ .

God, Spencer. Sweet Spencer who wanted to help you, you know all he wants to do is help you, and honestly you’re not sure why. Not sure where this sudden and dangerous connection between the two of you came from. It was like two magnets drawn together, and needing to be forced apart from each other. That’s probably why you were separated from him now, most likely his team did that for whatever reason.

The door clangs open, and you finally look up as two women enter. The blonde one looks familiar, but the taller dark haired one is a stranger to you.

“You were at the club the other night,” you say to the blonde woman, and she nods, smiles in a tightlipped way that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’m Agent Jareau, and this is Agent Prentiss,” she introduces the two of them as they both sit down in a synchronized manner. You can’t help thinking that they’re pretty. In the severe FBI sort of way, but they  _ both _ are attractive. That must be some kind of requirement to join the BAU-  _ be pretty _ .

“It’s nice to meet you guys,” you say out of habit, because in reality it wasn’t like meeting them under this specific set of circumstances was preferable. Maybe going out to dinner with Spencer one night, to meet his team, get acquainted with them, spend the entire night not trying to be obvious about your affections for their coworker, but failing seeing as they’re profilers. Now  _ that _ would be preferable.

“Likewise,” Prentiss is saying, opens up the folder in her hands and thumbs through it, “you have quite the squeaky clean record. No juvenile charges, no misdemeanors in your adult life, good student- what happened to lead you to working at Pyramids? You could have gone to a solid school if you wanted.”

“I did,” you counter gently, not wanting to seem like you were aggressive or defensive, “go to school. For a week, but I was still accepted.”

“Right, what happened there?”

“Money was tight. That’s what led me to working at Pyramids.”

“And when you started working there, it was clear that Terry favored you over the other girls?”

“I didn’t want to believe it,” you start out, sighing out a soft breath of air before continuing, “I never wanted the special treatment, or the extra gifts or money. I was making more than enough without his handouts. The girls took notice of it, and I tried to not let it get to me, but I had to try and quit once my work environment got worse. More toxic. It was like I was an outsider for months, looking through a window at the other girls as they went about their lives and had fun at work. If anything, I was jealous of them, not the other way around.”

“ _ Jealous enough to kill them _ ?” Jareau asks, and you sit up straighter, stare her down from across the table. The silence was thick in the room, almost deafening. That admission, that sort of speak, had you on edge immediately. As if a switch had been flipped inside of you, you’re on the defense.

“ _ No _ , never. Not me,” you plead, brows furrowed, and hand still clutched around the glass, “I never wanted anyone gone, or to put someone in a position where they would have to leave  _ for _ me. Instead,  _ I  _ was going to leave, but Terry wouldn’t let me.”

“What do you mean he wouldn’t let you?” Prentiss continues the questioning. For a second, you see something flash across Agent Jareau’s face, something akin to disbelief or anger but it’s gone as soon as it happens.  _ Must have something to do with Spencer _ . You wanted to apologize in that moment, tell them it was never your intention to lead him on-  _ because you weren’t _ \- but that you had no other choice. Maybe you’ll get a chance to soon.

“He’s.. possessive,” you explain, left hand finally releasing the cup and motioning in the air with a flip, “if I hadn’t stayed, he would hunt me down and kill me instead, type of possessive. I swear I didn’t ask him to kill Willow or the other girls, but-” a pause, you take a drink of water to help alleviate the dryness in your mouth, and then you place the glass back on the table, drop your head a little and give it a small shake, “I knew. I knew he did them, and I didn’t tell the police.”

“That makes you an accessory to the murders, you know that, right?” Jareau speaks again, and you look at her, shrug a little. For the first time since the night before, you feel all the emotions you’ve been keeping stamped down well up within you. Tears spring the corners of your eyes, threatening to tip over and fall down your cheeks.

“So?” you ask, a watery smile replacing your monotonous expression, “Sylvia is dead. Willow is dead. Who knows who else he’s killed? Me doing time for not doing enough to save them feels like a lesser sentence than what happened to them. I  _ wish _ they were still alive, and that I were in their place. Things would be much easier that way, wouldn’t they?”

Agent Jareau is silent as she studies you from across the tabletop then she stands, pushing the chair back in and under the table. Prentiss follows suit, and they both glance at the mirror before exiting the room and leaving you there alone. Perhaps to cry, but the tears still refuse to fall. The door opens, and you glance towards it, just in time to notice a small flash of golden brown curls and a sweater vest before it slams shut and he’s hidden from you.  _ You never got to apologize _ , and now you never will. Of course, there will be a court hearing, but who knows what will happen to you now? Who will testify for you? Who will sit up on the witness stand and actually say you’re a good person?

You’re having an increasingly harder time believing that you even are one as the minutes pass and you’re left alone in the room. You stare at the clock, and wait, and wait, and wait, but still no one comes. Not to put you in a cell, not to put you in the back of some car to go to jail, not to release you-  _ nobody _ . At first, it doesn’t seem that odd, but as the seconds tick by and turn into a full hour, you’re standing and going to the door. Trying the knob, you find it locked, and press your ear against the cool metal of it.

At the same second, a gunshot goes off down the hall. 

Adrenaline floods your system, and you try pulling on the door handle again, but it refuses to budge. Slamming your hands against the door, you back away from it, and breathe heavily. What was that? What was happening out there? Surely, that wasn’t an  _ actual _ gunshot. Just your imagination, but just as you think that another two sound off.  _ Shit _ .

For all your panicking, you are relatively safe in the four walled room they had you trapped in. But, you can’t help the sinking feeling in your gut, that something extremely bad was actually happening outside and also had something to do with you. Was that self absorbed to think? Maybe, but when were things in your life as simple as  _ that’s not my problem _ . They’ve never been like that, and this time is no different.

“C’mon, think,” you mumble to yourself, and glance around the room. There was the table, three chairs, and a camera in the upper corner, as well as the glass of water on the table you had been nursing all morning. In a split decision sort of moment you grab one of the metal chairs and haul it up over your head. It was relatively light, but you can’t stop the slight ache in your shoulders as you continue to hold it up and wobble your way back over to the door.

If it works in the movies, it’s bound to work in real life, right?

Crashing the chair down and against the handle, you let out a strangled yelp and fall backwards as the force of the chair comes down and breaks the lock and handle entirely. Not as graceful as you hoped, but at least now you were free- and a vandal, but surely that can be forgiven, yeah? Rising back up on your feet, you stumble forward, and pull open the heavy door exiting out into the hallway.

Now that you are in the hall, you hear panicked voices coming from down in the main room, and feel your heart drop to your feet as you recognize the deep rumbles of Terry’s voice and the softer more well spoken tones of Spencer’s flood your ears. Following the sounds of those voices, you stop at a corner before entering the lobby area and peer around the corner.

The first thing you see is Terry stood near the entrance, pistol raised and something bulky beneath his jacket. The next thing is Spencer and the rest of his team hiding behind desks, and with their chosen guns out. The only one who didn’t have a gun out was Spencer, who had his hands raised and was speaking.

“-I hardly know her, Terry,” he’s saying, eyes trained on the floor. He’s facing you with his back to Terry, crouched behind a desk. Terry is to his left, once again at the entrance, and looking wild in his eyes as he listens to Spencer. “We just met through the case,” he keeps soothing the agitated Terry.

“You’re trying to steal her from me, agent, I know you are,” Terry argues, voice clearly angered and disgruntled. But not just mildly annoyed, he looked and sounded like he was about ready to have a full blown breakdown. Maybe, he was already in the middle of it. You want to say something, try to help defuse the situation, but you stay hidden and quiet. Speaking right then wouldn’t have done anything to help, if anything, it would have just made things worse. “Come out of hiding, talk to me like a real man,” he tries to coerce Spencer into doing, and you turn your gaze back to him behind the desk.

His face was twisted a little, the cogs in his brain clearly turning trying to find a way out of this, to save everyone in the station. Instead of speaking, he starts to stand to his full height and you feel your entire body fill with dread.

As Terry raises his pistol, it’s like the world completely slows down. You rush forward, tackle Spencer to the ground as the shot rings out, and someone else takes the time to disarm Terry as he seems shocked by your sudden appearance. With the way Spencer dropped, you were on top of him with your face against his neck and your arms wrapped around him, the two of you unscathed. There was no time to question each other or feel embarrassed by the way you both landed, because there was still something in Terry's jacket to be concerned about.

Untangling yourself from Spencer, you walk towards Terry, and reach down before anyone can stop you, unzipping his jacket and flinging it open. Instead of a bomb or something better greeting you, you’re met with the worst sight. Ziploc bags of organs and skin and blood, presumably from his victims. Stumbling backwards, you cover your mouth in disgust and feel yourself press against the body of someone helping stabilize you. One quick glance behind you tells you it's Spencer with an equally as mortified look on his face albeit his is better concealed.

“I thought you loved me, angel,” Terry is saying, “I even brought us dinner,” and then he’s being hauled away, and you’re left standing there with shaky hands and teary eyes as you’re forced to come to terms with what Terry has been doing to the remains of those women-  _ your friends _ .

It was clear to you then that you and Terry were not cut from the same cloth and actually came from two different planets. That you were not as sick as him, but perhaps, sick in a different way.

You needed to call your therapist again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know that seemed rushed but their story isn't over yet! criticism and comments always appreciated and welcome!<3


	6. you know you're lost (lost in the thrill of it all)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer left with a whisper. His team decided in the end that you were a victim in all of this and not a pawn. Uninvolved in the crimes, and instead acting in a form of self defense. In a couple months, you were expected to be a witness during Terry’s trial. In fact, you were the witness. Without you, Terry might walk away with a lesser sentence than what he deserves. As for what happened after everything with Spencer, the answer is: nothing. Nothing happened. He was awkward in that endearing way he just is and when you left the station after having to confront Terry for the last time. He didn’t hug or kiss you goodbye, there wasn’t a cinematic love confession, you two had only known each other for a handful of days after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry early christmas to those that celebrate it! here's the next chapter lovelies<3

It’s been weeks since that incident. Weeks since you last saw Spencer and his team, weeks since your last encounter with Terry, and weeks since you’ve been freed from all the constant guilt and trauma that came with working at Pyramids. It was permanently closed once news broke of what the owner was doing, and most girls moved on to work at other joints, but not you. Working in that same environment just didn’t feel right anymore. Not without Sylvia by your side. It was almost impossible for you to go back to a sense of normalcy, and move on.

You were lucky enough to get your old job back as a hostess, and that was paying the bills for the most part. Staring down at the water bill in your hand, your other hand types some numbers into your calculator and you sneer down at the number it shows you. Back to barely making end’s meet. You lean back in your seat in your small apartment, and sigh, glancing around the space to occupy some time and procrastinate crunching more numbers.

Spencer left with a whisper. His team decided in the end that you were a victim in all of this and not a pawn. Uninvolved in the crimes, and instead acting in a form of self defense. In a couple months, you were expected to be a witness during Terry’s trial. In fact, you were  _ the  _ witness. Without you, Terry might walk away with a lesser sentence than what he deserves. As for what happened after everything with Spencer, the answer is: nothing. Nothing happened. He was awkward in that endearing way he just is and when you left the station after having to confront Terry for the last time. He didn’t hug or kiss you goodbye, there wasn’t a cinematic love confession, you two had only known each other for a handful of days after all.

Decidedly so, you weren’t going to call him. Not for the little things anymore like talking about fears into the dead air of the night. He did, though, occupy your every waking thought. The way his hair curls at the ends, the way his eyes lit up every so often when you two talked, the close familiarity he adopted around his team. Like they were all a family to him. You didn’t even know where he grew up, and you were keeping from google searching him not wanting to be pinged by some FBI tech specialist and seeming like a stalker. Besides, you know it’d pull up all of his achievements and then you’d fall for him all over again. How quick does love really come? You weren’t in love with him, but you could see yourself falling for someone like him. Maybe instead of love you’d call it a fond adoration. 

Standing from the table, you rinse out your coffee cup- you’d started putting cream and sugar in it instead of taking it as is- and set it aside to dry. It was getting late and staying up was getting increasingly more difficult. Most people would be scared to sleep after going through what you went through, but it was the being awake part that scared you more. Seeing shadows out of the corners of your eyes, leaving your bed to face the hustle and bustle of the busy world- those seemed much more daunting than falling to sleep whether a nightmare or a dreamless night happened. After all, nightmares aren't real. You know that, and you can compartmentalize that easy enough when you come back to the waking world. 

Going through the motions of your night routine, you finally slip into bed, and drift off almost as soon as your head meets your pillow. 

_ “We need you to talk to Terry for us,” Prentiss says, looking at you from across the table. There’s a few others there but you don’t know their names and their faces are too fuzzy for you to focus on.  _

_ “Why me? You guys are the profilers?” You snap, getting defensive about the position you’re about to be put in. _

_ “Because he’ll open up to you. His infatuation for you is his weak spot,” Jareau is explaining, and it makes sense to you. That you would be the one to get Terry to crack, to get him to break. Still, you had been through enough haven’t you? What was the point in putting you through more when it’s their job. _

_ “Spencer,” you plead, but he won’t look at you. Seemingly more absorbed and interested in a speck of wood on the table you all were sat around. “Spencer, please,” you try again, and his face scrunches a little but still no response.  _

_ “We wouldn’t be asking this of you if we didn’t have any other option,” Prentiss says, leaning over the table to take your hand. You pull it away too quickly for her to hold it for long. You don’t know her like that. For her to console you, to ask a big favor of you. Call it hypocritical, but this was too much. _

_ The silence drags on after that. You are on one side of the table staring at these FBI agents, and the agents are staring back at you in varying degrees of interest and worry. It was almost laughable, the palpable tension in the room that could have been cut clean through by a butter knife. Finally, you give in with a long drawn out sigh, standing from your chair. “Fine,” you agree, and Spencer- after so long of not doing it- looks up at you, “I’ll do it. I’ll help you.” _

_ From then you are debriefed on certain words to use, and phrases, and then you are brought to a room similar to the one you were held in mere hours ago. An interrogation room that was cold and dreary and gray and only brought you back to the time you were sitting on the other side of the table being questioned needlessly. They open the door for you, and there’s Terry sulking in the middle of the room. The bastard was caught and he has the balls to sit there and look like he was a victim. It fills you with a certain amount of rage to know that he was so good at playing like he was the one who didn’t commit the crimes he did. Even after shooting up the station, and coming in with a jacket filled with human body parts. _

_ “Hi, Terry,” you say, going to take a seat and he perks up. _

_ “Angel, oh, my sweet angel,” he coos, tries to touch you but is stopped by the handcuffs around his wrists, “they won’t listen to me. I was trying to save you, I thought they were going to do something terrible to you.” _

_ “Who was going to hurt me, Terry?” You recall Prentiss telling you to only ask him questions in return and to use his name often. _

_ “The FBI, I know that one agent was trying to take you from me. To turn you away from me and steal you away,” he says, shaking his head. His hair was long, but straight. Not curly and fascinating to look at like Spencer’s. It fell into his face as he moved, and with the grease buildup on it both from products and from not showering, a strand or two stuck to his sweaty forehead. _

_ “Did you think they were trying to take me somewhere to hurt me?” _

_ “No, no… just away from me,” he whimpers, as if just the thought hurt him, “I love you, don’t they understand that?” _

_ “Why would taking me away be a bad thing, Terry?” _

_ The way his face twists makes you immediately aware that that question was not the right one to ask. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, huffs out a laugh, “because I take care of you. Keep you safe.” _

_ “You kill people, Terry,” the questions you were meant to ask completely threw out the metaphorical window now, that anger you were feeling bubbling up too much to be stamped down, “you kill people and call that love. You should feel like a monster.” _

_ “You let me,” the confession was useless now, as that one admission thrown at you stung deep. Flashes of Sylvia’s face flicker across your mind, Willow and Emma, all the other girls he must have hurt to get you to the top. You had let him, and you didn’t try to stop it. To sacrifice yourself. You are his golden ticket, his top prize, after all. Maybe if you died in their place he would have stopped, or more realistically, would that have triggered a rampage and therefore he would have been caught much faster than the months it took for the FBI to come out and look into the case? You didn’t know. Your breath was picking up, and you were feeling cornered. Put in a position you didn’t want to be in in the first place.  _

_ “I begged you to stop one time.” _

_ “Yeah, one time,” he mocks, “you could have stopped me much earlier. Told me you were happy with me, and what I’d done, but you never did. You just let me kill your friends.” _

_ “I didn’t!” You yell, slap the table, and consider punching him across the face, “get me out of here. He confessed, just get me out.” _

_ “Want to know what I did with the bodies? Ask your new little boyfriend, ask him. They were all whores that never respected me or you. They deserved to die,” he sneers, and you’re practically crying now listening to what he’s saying to you, “Sylvia called your name out before she died. Petting some dumb alley cat, had no idea I had followed her home and was waiting for the right time to strike. She called your name out, probably praying you were close, and she died alone on the street. No one helped, no one came. I took her heart like I did the others and had the most exquisite dinner with it. Cooked it up, and ate it happily. Thought of you the entire time while I did it.” _

_ There were no doors or windows anymore. No cameras, no one coming to help you. Terry stands then, the handcuffs he was once wearing now gone, and he’s on you. No tables, no chairs, just four walls and you and Terry. He’s got his hands wrapped around your neck, and he’s laughing maniacally into the space of the room, head thrown back with delight. You scramble for purchase against his arms, writhing against the cool concrete flooring. Getting your hands wrapped around his forearms you try to pry his own hands off from around your neck, but as your vision starts to go fuzzy, he leans down. _

_ “They all died alone, and you will too,” he whispers against your ear, “you’re not special, and you never were. You’re just like the rest of them. A filthy slut with no family and no home.” _

_ Then, the world around goes dark. _

Waking up with a start, you gasp for air, and clutch at the sheets beneath your closed fists. For a moment, you’re not in your room and you’re entirely thrown off about your surroundings. After a few measured breaths, and some blinking to reacquaint yourself with your room, you’re back to Earth. The nightmares have become less frequent, but they always stay the same. Back in that room with Terry. Of course, things didn’t go the same way as they had in your dream, but they could have. On so many occasions he could have killed you, so what’s really the difference if it happens in a dream or not? 

Checking the time, your clock shows you that it’s four in the morning. Far too early to be awake and far too late to go back to sleep. Getting up and out of bed, you head into the bathroom to busy yourself with your morning routine.

How much longer could you stay in Las Vegas? Your biggest fear is being complacent. Letting Pyramids and Terry ruin your life long after they’ve been gone. Falling into a false sense of security and still having to look over your shoulder every time you left your house. It felt like this fear would never leave you so long as you remained in Nevada, but where else would or could you go?

You didn’t have any family to call on. An only child, and parents that never really cared about what you wanted to do with your life. Any extended family was either dead or sided with your parents when you moved. The only people you could call on would be old coworkers, but after all the news came out they want nothing to do with you. Sylvia comes to mind, but she’s been gone for weeks- and it was partially your fault. Feeling a sweeping guilt wash over your system, you pause in washing your face and fall back against the wall of your bathroom. Slide down the wall, and clutch at your sides as panic swells up within you.

You couldn’t afford a therapist, not anymore, but the few times you were able to go she told you about something called survivor’s guilt. Which was, as you assume, what was happening right now. You survived Terry, but at what cost? The lives of your friends, your job, your own life. Those seemed too big of sacrifices to make just to keep yourself alive. You had to escape from Nevada, and soon. Once you calmed your breathing, you stand and finish your tasks in the bathroom before heading back into your bedroom and searching for your phone. Thumbing through the contacts list your thumb hovers over the one name you never thought you’d call. Pressing it, you hit the dial button, and wait.

It rings, and rings, and rings, and for a split second you think there won’t be an answer. Suddenly, the call picks up, and there’s silence on the other end of it before his voice floods your ear.

“Hello?” Spencer greets, and you know he’s feigning that he was asleep what with the groggy voice and the pause before any sort of answer. You know that he’d been awake for hours already with the time difference between you two.

“Spencer,” you sigh, “how are you?”

“...I’m alright,” he responds, quiet and resigned.

“That’s good to hear, that’s really good to hear,” you mumble against the receiver, pace your room and then stop to sit on the edge of your mattress. 

“It’s really early where you’re at, are you okay?”

You don’t know how to respond to that, because in time you think you’ll be okay, but at that very moment you weren’t. You needed his help again, but now that you were on the phone with him asking for it felt wrong after everything else you two went through. It felt damn near manipulative, but you rationalize that if he called you asking for help you’d drop everything so it must be a two way street. “Not really,” you answer honestly, not wanting to hide anything from him, “I need.. I just need to get out of Nevada. Keep having these dreams and these thoughts that keep me up at night and I hate feeling this powerless. You know I hate that feeling.”

“Yeah, I know,” he agrees, “what’s your plan?”

“I need your help,” you pause before huffing out a laugh, “ _ again _ .”

He snorts too, breathes out a shaky laugh at that. “You didn’t kill anyone, yeah?” and it’s meant to be a joke, but you don’t really laugh at it. The wound of Terry is still too fresh to be poked at.

“No, brainiac, I didn’t,” you retort, relishing in the lighthearted conversation that had taken over the phone call. Finally, some sort of normalness among the chaos.

“Then, what do you need me for?”

You suck in a soft breath, hold it and release it shakily before saying, “I need to get out. I want to move, and I was wondering if you had maybe an open room to stay in.”

“You want to move to DC? Why?”

“Got no other place to go, Spence.”

“Why not start fresh somewhere else?” he asks, and before you can get defensive he says, “not that I don’t want to help. I do, but I just want to make sure you’ve considered every option.”

“I hardly have enough money to move out of the place I’m at right now. I can’t go somewhere else and hope that things will work themselves out,” you explain, and he hums in understanding, “need some security right now. Some sort of safety.”

There’s a pregnant pause over the phone where neither of you say anything, but then there’s a sigh on his end and some shuffling before he’s going, “alright. Move in with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> next chapter will go up some time this week pinky promise  
> comments and criticism always welcome! until next time xoxo


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